James and the Giant Memory Loss
by Tarie
Summary: Harry is injured and has no memories of Ron and Hermione. They make him remember.


**Day 1**

It was dark and dirty and definitely not home.

Or was it?

He didn't know for sure. He _couldn't_ know for sure.

It was hard to see in there. The light was so dim and his glasses were all dusty.

_Oh._

Maybe he could see better if he cleaned his glasses. That seemed like an all right idea so he did it. Pinching the bridge of his nose briefly, he then tipped his head down to inspect his glasses. Round frames, sellotaped in the centre. Or was it? The stuff _looked_ like sellotape but, when he pressed the tip of a finger to it, it felt odd, like there was something more than just sticky sellophane holding his glasses together. This unsettled him and he coughed nervously, then swiped at his lenses with the hem of a grimy, torn maroon jumper. He thought the design covering his chest was a lion but he wasn't really sure about that or why he'd be wearing something with a lion on it. Did he even like lions?

Glasses properly on once more, he twisted his hands in his lap. Something wasn't right about this place. He could sense that, just as he could sense that it wasn't the first time he'd been there. He definitely knew this four-poster and its dusty hangings. He definitely knew the battered piano in the other corner. And somewhere inside of him knew the ragged curtains and angry gashes in the wall. He knew those things and yet he didn't. And that was making him more than a little anxious.

Maybe he should get up, walk around. That might help.

Nodding resolutely, he curled his fingers around the edge of the mattress, scooting to the edge and then he-

He stopped.

What was that on his hand?

Frowning, he lifted his hand to eye level and squinted in the darkness. He gasped.

Where those _words_ on his hand?

_I must..._

He could just barely make it out.

_I must not..._

Sticking his tongue between his teeth, his eyes narrowed even further in concentration, studying the slant of the writing on the back of his hand.

_I must not tell lies._

"I must not tell lies," he said softly, slowly.

His words hung in the air, mingling with the dust. The words were weighted and they felt like they had meaning to him. And for some odd reason, he felt he could _see_ the words floating among the dust, visible in thin beams of light coming from rotted slats of wood haphazardly covering up a window.

Light.

Pushing himself off of the mattress, he stumbled over to the window, and then turned his face up to its meager offering. It was warm on skin and hurt his eyes a little, but that wasn't so bad because his entire _body_ hurt, actually. He felt as though he'd done something that took a lot of physical energy, for he was very drained and his head felt sort of fuzzy. Maybe it wasn't fuzzy so much as it was-

He heard footsteps. It sounded like more than one person. Was there a staircase? There had to have been; he knew that wooden runners sounded like when you stepped on them in a weak spot. _Creaaaaaaak_.

Because he couldn't be sure who was coming, what they might want from him, or if they were even looking for him at all, it seemed like a brilliant idea to hide. A quick glance around the room quickly told him that the best place to hide would be under the four-poster he'd been sitting on only moments ago. Unfortunately for him, his exhausted body didn't move as fast as he would have liked it to and he soon found himself rather caught.

Before he'd even made it half-way to the four-poster, the door to the room, which had been closed (as much as it could be, barely hanging on its hinges in the doorframe), blew inward, as though someone had given it a very strong kick. The door flung open forcefully and two people holding strangle little sticks dashed across the room toward him.

"There you are!" said the woman, sounding as relieved as she looked.

"Oh, thank God," said the man, tall and all arms and legs with a long, freckled nose. He looked pale, like he was ready to faint.

"Er," he said uncertainly, looking from one person to the other apprehensively. What was he supposed to say in a situation like this? What _does_ one say to two people who seem incredibly glad to see you and you don't quite know who they are or why they've obviously been so worried about you? Finally he settled on a greeting, figuring it was better than nothing. "Hi."

"Hi?!" repeated the woman in a shrill voice. "Is that all you can-"

The red-headed man cut her off. "Give him some sodding room, Hermione," he said sharply, sitting down on the mattress beside him. "He's been through a hell of a lot and he doesn't need us to be crowding him. Just be glad we found him and he's all right, yeah?"

Hermione, who had really quite a lot of brown, bushy hair, pursed her lips and he was sure she had a lot to say and was trying to work out what to say first. Beside him, the red-headed man shot her a dirty look as he pulled his legs up beneath him to sit cross-legged on the bed.

Finally Hermione spoke, taking up a spot on his other side. "I _know_ he's been through a lot, Ron." Leaning over him to glare at the man named Ron, she then sniffed and sat up tall in her spot, eyeing him with concern. "It's been two days. We've been looking- Remus has been looking- The Ministry came and took Voldemort's body away now. They had to wait twenty four hours to be sure there wasn't any sort of residual magic laying about. Hit Wizards, Aurors, the few people left in the Order... we've been looking everywhere for you."

He listened to Hermione speak in silence, watching her speak. She certainly was passionate; that much he could tell. Her hands moved animatedly while she spoke and he watched them for a few moments before she started saying strange words he didn't understand. Voldemort. Magic. _There wasn't any such thing as magic, was there?_ Hit Wizards. _Wizards?!_ Aurors. Order. The strange words tumbled past her lips as though they were perfectly natural. Well, they weren't natural to him. Hoping that he wasn't alone in not understanding what Hermione was talking about, he stole a glance at Ron. Ron didn't seem to be bothered at all by any of this and he had a sinking suspicion that he shouldn't be either.

"Well?" She was looking at him expectantly now. They both were.

"Er." That seemed to be his favourite word. Er. Yes.

A large hand brushed against his knee and he swallowed, looking down. This Ron bloke had a hand on his knee. He wasn't sure if it would be polite to bounce his leg and bump it off or not so he did nothing.

"Did you Apparate here, mate?" Ron asked. "Because they found Voldemort's body in Godric's Hollow, just beyond, well, you know."

"Apparate? Er. Um." He rubbed at the back of his neck anxiously, beginning to feel sick. The questions and strange words were getting to him and he wanted this Ron and Hermione to just go away and leave him alone. It wasn't that he didn't like them; they seemed like lovely people and all that. But they were _odd_ and demanding answers from him that he just couldn't give.

"Harry?"

Hermione placed a hand on his other knee and looked up at him with round, wide eyes. Although he didn't know her, he could tell from the way she was studying him that she was worried.

_Harry? Harry._

_Harry? Is that me?_

_That doesn't sound like me._

_Or does it? I don't know. But I know I don't think I like that name very much._

"Don't call me that," he mumbled, getting up and moving to the doorway, turning his back to them.

"What?" Ron said, sounding confused. "What d'you mean? Don't call you Harry?" Ron paused and he could imagine that this Ron and Hermione exchanged a worried sort of glance, but he wasn't going to turn around to see it.

"Yeah, don't call me that," he mumbled. "I don't like it."

There was an uncomfortable silence for a long while. It was finally broken when Hermione spoke softly. "All right. What would you like us to call you then?"

What would he like to be called? Certainly not Harry. The name sounded...it sounded like it was too important for him, somehow. That likely didn't make sense and he knew it but that was how it sounded to him. Worrying his lower lip, he mulled over a few possibilities, one standing out above the rest.

"James," he said, nodding to himself. "I want you to call me James."

From inside the room, Ron made a choking sound. "You- you don't remember who you are, do you? You don't remember us. You don't remember things."

His heart leapt in his throat. That was it.

"No," James said slowly, "I don't remember things. And I don't know if I should want to remember the things I can't."

**Day 7**

Ron and Hermione, James decided, weren't all that bad. A little overwhelming at times because they tended to hover and smother, but overall not bad.

After they'd found him in what they later told him was called the Shrieking Shack, they brought him back to Ron's family home, called The Burrow. It wasn't the best place in the world - it looked like a wish and a prayer was holding it together - but it was much nicer than the Shack had been. The place comforted him somehow. He'd said as much to Hermione the other night and she smiled, telling him that he'd spent a good number of Summer hols here as a schoolboy. Although he couldn't remember it, of course, James knew he must have had a brilliant time in this house.

As the four o'clock tea hour neared, Ron put on a kettle and followed him and Hermione out to the back yard, where they set up a table and a few chairs. Using their wands - that was what the strange little sticks he'd seen them use inside the Shrieking Shack were called - Ron and Hermione had the table set in no time. James quite liked the yard, the garden in particular. There were funny little creatures with heads like potatoes called gnomes that made him laugh. When Hermione's bandy-legged beast of a cat, Crookshanks, would charge and pounce on one, the rest would scatter, running as quickly as their little legs could carry them and James would laugh uproariously.

Crookshanks did it again and James nearly spilt the tea Ron served him, he was laughing so hard.

"Bad boy," Hermione chastisted, lowering her cup and glaring at the cat.

"_Good_ boy," Ron corrected with a snort, wiping a few tears from his eyes. Wearing a rather broad smirk, he looked at James as though looking for his opinion on the matter.

"I'm not getting in the middle of anything," James said slowly, looking from one to the other.

The retort presumably directed at Ron died on Hermione's lips when James spoke and he looked at her questionably. "What?"

She blinked. "Nothing." Frizzy hair flew to and fro as she shook her head. "It's nothing."

James frowned. He could sense the light mood shifting into something he didn't want it to be.

"It's not nothing," Ron countered, sobering. "Don't be like that, Hermione."

"I'm not being like _anything_, Ron!" she cried, standing up so quickly that her chair toppled over.

Confusion set in and James didn't like it one bit. What exactly was going on here?

"Er."

Ron shot him a look but James didn't know what the hell it meant. Maybe he did once but not anymore. He didn't _know_ Ron.

"Yes you are," Ron retorted, leaving his own seat and crossing to her. James watched in fascination as he grabbed her wrists and shook her a bit. "I know what you thought. I _know_ you, Hermione. And, yeah, Harry hated getting in the middle of our rows, but that doesn't mean that Harry- oh, bugger ALL, that James here is remembering he's _Harry_. We can't rush him, see? We can't do that or it'll make things worse. Remember what Remus said? We have to be patient and help him to remember _when he's ready to remember_, not when we're ready for him to remember, cos he won't be able to do it til everything's clicked all back in place. Remembering all the shite he's forgotten isn't something you can fix like picking up books and notes and time tables and going over things. It'll just _happen_ when he's good and ready for it to happen."

While he'd been speaking to her, Ron shook her a little. James wanted like hell to look away but he found that he couldn't; he couldn't _not_ watch the way Ron put his face right close to Hermione's and the way her wrists turned over in his hands and how they threaded their fingers together and how her eyes got really wet and how urgently Ron spoke to her. It tore James up inside to see them like that and it was pissing him off. Who_were_ they to him, anyway? What was he to _them_ and why were they acting like he wasn't fucking there right in front of them?

"I know," Hermione choked. "I know." James wanted to tell them both to SHUT UP. "I just miss him, Ron."

"I know you do," Ron said.

James had to get up and leave when Ron pulled Hermione to him and stroked her hair, letting her sniffle against his shoulder.

**Day 23**

Ron's parents, James decided, weren't all that bad. A little on edge and treated him like he might break, but overall not bad.

They'd come back to The Burrow after he, Ron, and Hermione had been there alone for nearly two weeks. They'd been in hiding, they explained, and couldn't leave Glasgow until they had received word from a man named Dumbledore that it was safe, even if Harry-meaning him, he supposed- had killed Voldemort.

Arthur and Molly, as they requested he called them, told them stories about Ron and his siblings, both living and dead, and Hermione and himself. They were awfully animated when they spoke, even if they looked much older than their fifty-something years (James supposed that this Big War they'd all fought in had a lot to do with that) and James couldn't resist asking them for more and more stories. Ron and Hermione would occasionally chip in with an anecdote or two and James would smile and feel doubly bad when they smiled brightly in return. They didn't say anything to him about it, but he wasn't daft. Those smiles meant they were happy and hopeful - hopeful that he was coming around to rememeber this Harry and the things that he'd done. But James _didn't_ remember. Sure, it was all right to hear the stories about himself and even, in some cases, see pictures (that moved!) and have someone explain to him who all the people were and what they were doing, but the stories and the pictures and the memories meant nothing to him. They weren't anything to him. They weren't his. They were Harry's. And he didn't know who this Harry was, no matter how much they all wanted him to know.

That morning they'd decided it was time to bring in someone who was what they called a Healer from St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. James hadn't been so keen on the idea but Ron, who somehow always knew the right things to say - or not say - to him, made him see that this would be a Good Thing to do. Ron reckoned that if they found out what at least _caused_ his memory loss, that might be able to help him later on with his recovery. That seemed all right to James, then, and he agreed to it.

The Healer had been a friend of Arthur's; he'd been one of the Healers who helped him a few years ago when he'd gotten a rather nasty snakebite, he said.

It had been awkward when the Healer first arrived; she kept staring at the scar on James' forehead and thanking him for what he did. James found he couldn't look her in the eye and that he had the very strong urge to push his hair down into his eyes every two minutes while she was there. The Healer scanned him with her wand and ran a few tests that didn't last very long at all, and then sent him out into the yard to watch Crookshanks attack the gnomes while she spoke with the elder Weasleys, Ron, and Hermione.

It had been a bit after noon when the woman sent him outside. It wasn't until the sun dipped below the horizon and Hermione lay a gentle hand on his shoulder that he realised he should have went inside hours ago.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly, turning toward her.

"Don't be sorry," Hermione replied, massaging his shoulder lightly. His eyes dropped to her hand, staring, and she withdrew. He was disappointed; her hand was small and warm and nice.

"You too." There was a strange twisting in his stomach and he gave her a lopsided smile. "That bad, huh?"

Her intake of breath was so quick that it whistled through a small gap in her front teeth. "No," she shook her head. "It'll be all right,Ha- James. I promise."

Somehow, he didn't quite believe her. It had been bad, what happened to him. He just knew it. But, strangely, her words rang true to him. It_would_ be all right if she promised it would be. If she and Ron were there to help him.

Things would be fine.

**Day 40**

"You're saying it wrong, James," Hermione said impatiently, pushing a shock of frizzy hair out of her eyes. "It's Wing-_gar_-dium Levi-_o_-sa, make the 'gar' sound nice and long."

James scowled and flicked his wand again while Ron chortled.

"Better you than me, mate. I learnt that one nine years ago."

"Shuddurp," he growled, shaking his wand vigorously and repeating Hermione's intonation again. "It's not bloody _working_! Are you sure I'm a wizard? Cos I seem to be crap at this stuff. We've been at it for, what, two weeks? And I'm still in that book marked Grade 1!"

Ron snorted and Hermione glared at him before rounding on James. "Yes," she said with exceeding patience, "you're a wizard, James. It's all right if you don't catch on straight away-" Ron snorted again. James was sure next time Ron snorted, his lung would pop right out of his nose. "_Honestly_, Ron, it _is_. Just be patient, James. You're really a great wizard; it will come back to you."

Confident, that one was. James wasn't so much, but he nodded nonetheless.

Hermione and Ron had been teaching him magic ever since the day that Healer from St. Mungo's had left. He had to admit, he could sense the magic in him, in his bones, in his blood, in his essence. Unlocking it and making it work was the part he wasn't sure about. But he was ready to try. Living at The Burrow and being around witches and wizards felt so incredibly natural to him and he longed to have that part of Harry back. Having all of Harry back wasn't something he was sure he wanted, but he wanted Harry's magical abilities. Now that he knew about them and what Harry had been capable of once, he craved it.

When he finally swished and flicked and floated a feather from Hedwig, an aged owl that Harry had owned for many years and who liked to nip his ear in some sort of odd display of affection, he felt more alive than he could remember every being before.

And that was brilliant.

**Day 43**

Before breakfast Ron promised him that they'd get out racing brooms and go up the hill to the small paddock that the Weasleys owned to go flying. James had been wanting to try it for ages and Ron said that he was getting a pretty good grasp on the rest of the magic stuff so it was high time they had some fun.

The three of them practised spells in the kitchen all morning when finally Ron told James to go up into their room and get two pairs of dragonhide gloves so they could go flying. Excitement bubbling up, he practically hopped up the stairs and bolted down the short hallway to their room, nicking two of the better-looking pairs off of Ron's trunk and loping down the staircase again.

"Oi, I've got 'em, mate," he crowed, walking into the kitchen. "Let's-"

And what he saw there made him stop dead in his tracks.

There Ron was, hands cupping Hermione's face, hips pressed against hers, pressing her back against the wall next to the door that lead to the yard, full-out snogging her.

He shut up immediately, dropping the gloves on the floor and dashing out into the yard.

**Day 44**

He didn't know why it bothered him that he saw Ron and Hermione snogging. Over the past few weeks, he'd seen enough of the way they looked at each other and those casual touches to figure that they were together. But seeing them like that? Together? Doing something without him?

Okay, so he _knew_ it was daft because obviously they _were_ together, had been for some time, and this Harry would have known about it.

And he also knew he was lying to himself.

He knew why it bothered him.

He was jealous.

**Day 51**

They'd been extra careful around him ever since that day and it was really starting to hack him off.

He had a nightmare that night filled with them and red eyes and a green light and an archway with a veil.

He must've been talking in his sleep because he felt someone shake him; he'd woken Ron up. Ron's shakes woke _him_ with a start. Sitting up, his t-shirt soaked with sweat, he met Ron's worried blue eyes. "Ha– James?"

"It was nothing," he said flatly.

"Don't," Ron said quickly, sitting down on his bed. He wiped back some of James' sticky hair and he couldn't be arsed to tell him to stop it. That was all right; it wasn't as though he really wanted Ron to stop that anyway. It was comforting.

"Don't what?" he heard himself say, sounding defiant and defensive.

"Don't tell me it was nothing, that's what. I've been your best mate since we were eleven. I know when you're having a nightmare and that was a fucking nightmare."

"I don't wanna talk about it," James said sullenly, not liking how Ron tilted his head close to his or how Ron's hand was sort of smoothing his hair back again.

Or maybe he liked it too much.

"You never do," Ron said quietly. "But I'll be here if you ever do want to. That's how it's always been."

Something about his tone tugged at James deep down. It was as though–

"Always?" he croaked, suddenly very aware of how close Ron was to him.

"Yeah. Always," Ron echoed.

"Everything all right? I heard you were up and I thought I'd better check in."

James hadn't even heard the door open, but there Hermione was all the same.

"Yeah," he said slowly, patting the spot on his other side before he knew it. "It's all right now. Since you're both here and all."

The mattress dipped slightly beneath her weight and then she, too, was smoothing his hair back. James could feel Ron and her fingers twine together in his hair and work together, almost petting him in a way softly.

"It's all right, Harry," Hermione whispered in his ear, her breath tickling his skin. He definitely liked the way her lips moved lightly against his lobe when she did that, probably more than he should. "You can sleep now. We're here."

Two pairs of arms wrapped around him then and they all lay together on the narrow bed. James was too tired to correct her about his name, drifting off before his head even hit the pillow.

**Day 63**

Ever since the night Ron woke up on account of James' nightmare and Hermione happened upon them, they decided they all ought to sleep in James' room with him. Hermione taught him how to enlarge the bed to accommodate all of them and he thought it was wicked.

Learning magic and flying again had been going well. A few people popped by for visits - a Remus Lupin, to whom James took an immediate liking, and an Albus Dumbledore, to whom James felt a bit cold. They were the most frequent callers, although James told Ron and Hermione that he'd be perfectly happy if Dumbledore wouldn't call ever again. Hermione frowned at that news while Ron said it was perfectly natural, considering what all he'd withheld from James over the years. James could sense a row brewing between the two and put a stop to it as quickly as he could, not wanting them to be at odds with each other if he could help it.

Hermione didn't come to James' room that night. Ron didn't sleep and neither could he. It felt odd to try and sleep without her there.

**Day 64**

Ron and Hermione smoothed over their little tiff from the day before and, after a long day of working on his magic and answering questions that James had about this person and that person and what happened again at the Yule Ball during their fourth year, the three took their turns in the loo and got ready for bed.

With their reassuring warmth on either side of him, James found it easy to drift off to sleep, feeling safe with Hermione snuggled against him and Ron's chest pressed up against his back.

**Day 64, late evening. Technically Day 65**

"No!"

Panicking, he sat straight up, pushing wildly at the sheets and duvets, crawling awkwardly over a tangle of them, jostling Ron and Hermione as he made his way to the foot of the bed, falling off and landing on the floor with a _thump_.

"I can't- no! _No_!"

In an instant, they were on the floor on either side of him, arms enveloping him in an embrace, hands rubbing at any bit of him they could reach.

"It's all right, James," Ron rasped, looking shaken up.

"Shhh, James. Shhhh," Hermione whispered over and over again, somewhat rocking him and Ron.

"Don't," he said hoarsley, wriggling enough so he could free his hands and bring them up to his face, pressing his palms against his eyes. "Don't."

"Don't what?" Hermione said slowly, stilling them.

"Don't call me James," he stammered. "I'm Harry. Harry James Potter."

"Oh, bloody _hell_," Ron croaked, crushing Harry in his arms. "You're _you_. You're really fucking _you_."

"Yeah," Harry said weakly, slumping against him. "I- Hermione?"

"Oh," Hermione breathed after a lengthy silent pause. "_Oh_." And with that, she wrapped her arms around him from behind, leaning over his shoulder to shower his cheek, jaw, and temple with kisses.

Harry laughed.

And then the laughter turned to tears.

He _remembered_ it.

All of it.

He remembered Number Four Privet Drive. The Hogwarts Express. The Mountain Troll. Chocolate Frogs. His father's invisibility cloak. The Age Line. Umbridge and her twisted detention. The Department of Mysteries. His first kiss with Ron. His first kiss with Hermione. Becoming a member of the Order of Phoenix. Their first times. Percy's death. Snape falling. Mundugus Fletcher coming through in the battle and saving Tonks from an ambush of Death Eaters. Voldemort.

Oh, he remembered Voldemort.

How he taunted Harry.

How he toyed with him.

How he hexed and fought and drew his blood.

How he _drank_ Harry's blood, magicking it out of him and trying to drain him to build up his own power. How he tried to use Harry's own essence against him.

How he- Harry didn't want to think about it.

"I didn't want to think about it," he gasped, wiping at his eyes furiously, unable to look at either of them. "I- the Healer? She told you, didn't she?"

"Yeah, she did," Ron said, finding one of Harry's hands and squeezing it.

"That had to have been a hard decision for you to make, Harry," Hermione said softly, shifting so that she was beside him and Ron and taking up his other hand.

"It was," he agreed, staring at their joined hands. "I couldn't- if you knew what he did to me, what he tried to do to me, to- I had to do it. It was so easy." He made a strangled sound somewhere between a choke and a laugh. "It was so _fucking_ easy just to swish and flick and say_Obliviate_, really."

"Sometimes," Hermione said gently, "the easy thing isn't..."

"...it isn't the right thing to do," Ron finished for her.

"I know that. I know that now. I just- if it hadn't been for the two of you, I'd be...they'd have in up in that ward with Lockhart and Neville's Mum and Dad, wouldn't they?" The seriousness of what he'd done hadn't been lost on him.

"Harry." Hermione lifted his chin up with her free hand, eyes searching his. "We wouldn't let something like that happen to you. We're _us_ and we've promised long ago to take care of each other, no matter what."

"I told you it'd be all right, remember?" Ron added, leaning forward and resting his forehead against Harry's. Hermione leaned in as well and a warmth flooded Harry's chest. Having them close like this and _knowing_ who they are and what they were to him...it was heaven.

"I remember," he murmured, tipping toward Ron first to brush their lips together and then to Hermione to do the same. "And I believed you. I've always believed you. The both of you."


End file.
